'For some weeks prior to mid-April, discontent became apparent at Spithead, and on the fifteenth of April last this resulted in open mutiny; the seamen refused duty and the fleet was unable to proceed to sea. They are in such a state at this time, and unhappily have been joined in their mutiny by the Plymouth squadron.'
'Is the situation stable?'
'It appears so at the moment, my lord,' Nepean said carefully. 'The mutinous seamen are keeping good order and discipline, and await a resolution. However, I am not sanguine this will continue - in an unfortunate excess of zeal, blood was shed and the seamen are affronted.'
Stanhope pondered. 'So as we speak, in essence, the approaches to these islands are entirely defenceless.'
'The men talk of sailing to meet the French if they make a sally, my lord, and please note that — praise be - the Nore and North Sea squadron are left to us, they did not mutiny.'
'Pray, why do they persist in their mutiny?'
Nepean shot a glance at Earl Spencer — his was the responsibility for some kind of resolution - but the First Lord continued to regard him gravely, so he continued: 'My lord, they have a number of grievances which they demand find redress before they'll consent to any kind of return to duty.' 'And these are?'
'The level of wages, of course, provisions served at short weight, no vegetables in port, that kind of thing.'
Stanhope looked up with a cynical smile. 'And?'
'Er, liberty in port and some oversight with the sick and wounded — and your lordship will no doubt recall that a couple of years ago the army were rewarded with an increase.'
Frowning, Stanhope turned to Spencer. 'It seems little enough. Can we not . . .'
'With the government's position the weaker for Lord Moira's unfortunate interference, any attempt on revenues will upset a delicate situation — we have suspended gold payments at the Bank of England, we are in dire need of every penny to buy off the Austrians, our last ally in all of Europe. Need I go further?'
'Our entire standing in foreign chancellories is threatened, sir. Do you propose to allow the situation to continue indefinitely?'
'No, my lord,' Spencer said heavily. 'We have compounded with the mutinous rascals for a substantial improvement in their pay, we have even secured a free pardon for this whole parcel of traitors, but still they will not yield.' He wiped his forehead wearily. 'They will not listen to Parliament, sir.'
Nepean broke in: 'This is true, sir,' he said smoothly, 'but we have secured the services of Earl Howe to intercede for us with the sailors. He is to coach to Portsmouth shortly, with plenary powers.'
'Earl Howe?'
'Whom the sailors call "Black Dick". He led them to victory in the action of the Glorious First of June, and they trust him like a father.' A wintry smile appeared. 'It is our last resource. If he does not succeed .. .'
Kydd stood in the foretop as one of the last rituals of the transition from live sea creature to one tethered and submissive was enacted. The sails were furled into a pristine harbour stow, the bunt taken over the yard into a graceful 'pig's ear' and plaited bunt gaskets passed to his satisfaction.
He found himself looking up to take in the sombre brown cliffs and bleak seacoast of Sheppey over the mile or so of scurrying drab sea. Emotions of times past returned sharp and poignant. A great deal had happened since he had left home ...
'Clap on more sail, if y' please, Mr Cantlie!' Kydd threw at the inboard seaman on the footropes. The sailor stared up resentfully but did as he was told. ‘Lay in,' Kydd ordered, when the furling was complete. The men came in off the yard and assembled in the foretop, but as they did so the piercing wail of calls from the boatswain's mates cut through. 'Haaaands to muster! Clear lower deck — all hands lay aft!'
It appeared that Captain Dwyer would address his ship's company before going ashore to pay his respects to the admiral. It was unusual — minds would be set on the joyous sprees to be had ashore, and a bracing talk more properly belonged to an outward-bound voyage.
Kydd took up his position, facing inwards midway between the officers aft on the poop-deck and the men crowding the main-deck forward, feet astride in an uncompromising brace.
'Still? the master-at-arms roared. Muttering among the mass of men died away quickly, and the captain stepped forward to the poop-deck rail.
'Men of the Achilles’ he began, then paused, surveying them grimly. The last shuffling of feet subsided: something was in the wind.
'I have to tell you now the gravest news, which affects us all. I am talking about nothing less than the very safety of this kingdom and the survival of these islands.'
He had total attention; some sailors had jumped into the lower rigging to hear him better. 'It is a stroke of war that the enemy have been able to achieve by cunning, treachery, and inciting our honest tars to treason.'
Puzzled looks were exchanged: this was nothing like a hearty call to arms.
Dwyer glanced at the stony-faced marine lieutenant, then continued: 'The news I will give may well come from others who do not have the true facts, which is why I am telling you now, so you have no reason to believe them.'
Suspicious looks appeared, eyes narrowed.
'It is my sad duty to have to inform you that your fellow seamen of the Channel fleet at Spithead have mutinied.' The suspicion turned to shock. 'In fact, the mutineers, led we believe by French agents, have joined together to hold Old England to ransom with a list of impossible demands that they have had the gall to inflict on Parliament this past week.'
An appalled silence was followed by a rising hubbub. 'Silencer screamed the master-at-arms. His voice cracked with tension, and the marines fingered their muskets. The noise lessened, but did not fade entirely.
'The fate of these blackguardly rogues you may guess. England will not forgive easily those who have so perfidiously betrayed their mother country, be assured.' His voice rose strongly. 'But do not you be gulled by free-talking scoundrels into thoughtless acts of treason, crimes for which only a halter at the yardarm is the answer. Your duty is plain before you — to your ship and His Majesty, no other!
'Mr Hawley,' he called to the first lieutenant. 'Three cheers for His Majesty!'
Hawley took off his hat and called loudly, 'M' lads, an huzzah for King George: hip, hip ...'
The cheers were distracted and uncertain, however, and Dwyer's face creased into a frown. 'Three more for our ship!' he ordered. These cheers were somewhat louder, but to Kydd's ears they sounded mechanical and lacking in spirit.
The captain waited for them to die, then continued evenly, 'I'm going ashore now. Mr Hawley will prepare your liberty tickets while we see about your pay. Carry on, please.'
Achilles's ship's company went to their noon grog in a ferment of anticipation. The talk of pay was promises only, but liberty ashore in an English port, however barren, after so long in foreign parts would be sweet indeed.
The more thoughtful reflected on the danger to the realm of the British fleet in a state of insurrection. Individual ships had mutinied before, the most prominent the Bounty less than ten years earlier, but this was a planned wholesale rising — who or what could be behind it?
At six bells the captain went ashore with all ceremony to make his number with the port admiral, Vice Admiral Buckner, and the ship setded to harbour routine. In the main this consisted of a controlled bedlam, a mix of those happy souls making ready to step ashore to taste the dubious delights of Sheerness and others whose duties kept them aboard.
The arrival of a big ship was always a gratifying sight to those shoreside, and it was not long before Achilles became the focus of a host of small craft coming round Garrison Point. Kydd sighed. He knew what was coming and, as mate-of-the-watch to Lieutenant Binney, he would have most to do with it.
Binney was on call below. Alone on the quarterdeck, Kydd watched as the hordes converged. He had made all the dispositions he could — boarding nettings were rigged below the line of the gunports, as much to deter desertion as unw
anted visitors; gear had been triced up to allow more deck space, the guns run out to broaden the width of gundecks; and canvas screens rigged on the lower deck.
'Here they come, the saucy cuntkins!' piped a midshipman in glee.
'Clap a stopper on it, young 'un!' Kydd growled. 'M' duty to Mr Binney, an' they'll be alongside presently.'
Binney came up just as the first boats arrived at the side-steps. 'One at a time, and they're to be searched,' he said, in a bored tone. Men lined the side, chuckling at their prospects.
Kydd motioned at random to one of the boats. It responded with alacrity and the woman at the oars made a dextrous alongside. She hoisted a basket of goods to her head and, grabbing the manrope, easily mounted the side, leaving a companion to lie off on her oars. 'An' the best o' the day ter yez.' She bobbed familiarly at the lieutenant. Chubby, and of invincible cheeriness, she submitted to the cursory search with practised ease, then pushed through the gathering sailors to set up position forward for her hot breads, pies and oranges. Others came aboard, some with trinkets, several with ingenious portable workbenches for tailoring, cobbling and leatherwork, and still more with cash-boxes ready to take a seaman's pay-ticket and change it — at ruinous discount — into hard cash.
More crowded aboard. The master-at-arms and ship's corporals were hard put to keep up with the stream. The hubbub grew, and Kydd stepped back for the sanctity of the quarterdeck just as the master-at-arms thrust an arm under a fat woman's dress.
''That f'r yer cat's piss, m' lovely!' he snarled triumphantly. The squeal of indignation faded into the embarrassment of discovery as a knife cut into a concealed bladder and cheap gin flooded into the scuppers.
'Heave her gear overside,' Binney ordered, and to mingled shouts . of protest and derision her tray of gewgaws sailed into the sea. The gin was destined for sale below decks and Kydd suspected from the growing merriment that other sources had already found their way there.
'Sweethearts 'n' wives, sir?' Kydd asked Binney.
'Cap'n's orders are very clear,' Binney replied, with a frown. 'Wives only, no pockey jades to corrupt our brave tars.' The master-at-arms raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Binney turned and left the deck to Kydd. The officers would now retreat to their wardroom and cabin spaces, and in time-honoured fashion the ship would be turned over to the men and their wives of the day.
'They shows their lines,' ordered Kydd. There would be some genuine wives; the rest would carry unimpeachable marriage lines, obtainable for a small fee ashore. But this fiction served to demonstrate to an increasingly prim public ashore that HMS Achilles was taking its responsibility seriously concerning the traffic in women's bodies.
He walked to the side and beckoned the waiting outer circle of watermen's boats. They bent to their oars with a will, the bulwarks lined with sailors lewdly urging them on.
It was as much to reduce numbers aboard as anything, but as practical senior of the watch he had the dubious honour of selecting those allowed to entertain Achilles men. The invading crowd swarmed aboard, modesty cast aside as the women clambered over the bulwarks. It was hard on the watermen; those whose passengers were rejected must return them ashore, a good mile or more and not a sixpence in it for their trouble.
The lucky ones pranced about on the pristine decks. A fiddle started on the foredeck and an impromptu dance began about the foremast. Feminine laughter tinkled, roars of ribaldry surged — the stern man-o'-war lines of Achilles melted into a comfortable acquiescence at the invasion.
Real wives were easy to spot: often with awed children, they bore lovingly prepared bundles and a look of utter disdain, and while they crossed the bulwarks as expertly as their rivals, they were generally swept up in a big hug by a waiting seaman. Some were told, 'Forrard on the gundeck, m' dear,' from a gruff master-at-arms. Their spouses being on duty, there they would find a space between a pair of cannons, made suitably private with a canvas screen, the declared territory of a married couple.
It was nearly six bells; when eight sounded and the evening drew in Cockburn would relieve Kydd, and he could retreat to the gunroom. The midshipman's berth was, however, only too near and it would be a noisy night.
Cockburn came on deck early: harbour watches were a trial for him, the necessary relaxation of discipline and boisterous behaviour of the seamen hard on his strait-laced Scottish soul.
'What cheer, Tarn? Need t' step ashore? Cap'n wants t' get a demand on the dockyard delivered b' hand f'r a new wash-deck pump. Ship's business, o' course, gets you off the ship f'r an hour.'
'In Sheerness?' Cockburn retorted scornfully. Kydd was looking forward to getting ashore and seeing something of the local colour, but Cockburn remained glum.
'Join me in a turn around below-decks afore I hand over the watch,' he said to the young man, trying to draw him out of himself. 'Younker, stand by on the quarterdeck,' he threw at the bored duty midshipman. The rest of the watch were together around the mizzen-mast swapping yarns, a token number compared to the full half of the ship's company closed up at sea.
They strode off forward, along the gangways each side of the boat space. 'Clear 'em off forrard,' Kydd said, to a duty petty officer following, who duly noted in his notebook that the wizened crone and the young child selling cheap jewellery on a frayed velvet cloth should be moved forward to clear the gangways.
The foredeck was alive with cheerful noise. Traders, expert in wheedling, had set out their portable tables and were reluctandy parting with gimcrack brass telescopes, scarlet neckcloths, clay pipes and other knick-knacks that were five times their price ashore.
By the cathead another basket of fresh bread was being hauled up from a boat. Teamed with a paper pat of farmhouse butter and a draught from a stone cask of ale, it was selling fast to hungry seamen.
A cobbler industriously tapped his last, producing before their very eyes a pair of the long-quartered shoes favoured by seamen going ashore, and a tailor's arms flew as a smart blue jacket with white seams and silver buttons appeared.
All appeared shipshape forward, and Kydd grunted in satisfaction. Beyond the broad netting, the bare bowsprit speared ahead to the rest of the ships at anchor.
Cockburn indicated the old three-decker battleship moored further inshore, 'ifo'll never see open water again.' Stripped of her topmasts and running rigging, her timbers were dark with age and neglect; her old-fashioned stern gallery showed little evidence of gold leaf, and green weed was noticeable at her waterline.
'Aye, Sandwich — she's th' receiving ship only,' Kydd answered. Too old for any other work, she acted as a floating prison for pressed men and others.
'Do you know then who's the captain of the sixty-four over there?' Cockburn asked.
'Director} No, Tarn, you tell me!'
'None else than your Cap'n "Breadfruit" Bligh, these five years avenged of his mutiny.' He paused impressively.
Kydd did not reply: in his eyes Bligh should have been better known for his great feat of seamanship in bringing his men through a heroic open-boat voyage without the loss of a single one. He turned abruptly and clattered down the ladder to the open boat-space on the upper-deck.
Sitting cross-legged on the fore-hatch gratings, a fiddler sawed away, his time being gaily marked by a capering ship's boy with a tambourine weaving in and out of the whirling pairs of sailors and their lasses. Some of the women wore ribbons, which the men took and threaded into their own jackets and hats.
Groups gathered near the fore-mast playing dice, perched on mess-tubs; others tried to read or write letters. The whole was a babble of conviviality and careless gaiety.
Kydd looked about: there was drink, mainly dark Kent beer but not hard spirits. So far there was no sign of real drunkenness - that would come later, no doubt. Groups of men, probably from other ships, were in snug conversation at mess tables further aft. Ship-visiting was a humane custom of the service and even if liberty ashore was stopped acquaintances with former shipmates could be pleasantly renewed.
&n
bsp; But as he moved towards them, the talk stopped and the men turned towards him warily. 'Lofty.' He nodded to Webb, a carpenter's mate.
The man looked at him, then the others. 'Tom,' he said carefully.
'Nunky,' Kydd greeted an older able seaman.
There was the same caginess. 'Yes, mate?'
The seamen looked at him steadily. The visitors were clearly long-service and showed no emotion. Kydd shrugged and moved down the fore-hatchway to the gundeck, the lower of the two lines of guns, and to the screened-off areas for the married men along the sides of the deck between each pair of cannon. There was an air of an unexpected domesticity, ladies gossiping together on benches along the midline of the deck, brats scampering about. A dash of colour of a bunch of flowers and the swirl of dresses added an unreality to the familiar warlike nearness of the gundeck. Kydd answered the cheery hails of some with a wave, a doff of his hat to others, and passed aft, happy there would be no trouble there.
A final canvas screen stretched the whole width of the deck. Kydd lifted it and ducked beneath. In the way of sailors, girls they had taken up with in this port before became 'wives' again for their stay. But in deference to real wives they were not accorded the same status or privacies. In hammocks, under hastily borrowed sailcloth between the guns, the men consorted with their women, rough humour easing embarrassment
Kydd moved on, eyes steadily amidships, alert for the trouble that could easily flare in these circumstances. Then down the hatchway to the orlop — the lowest deck of all. In its secretive darkness anything might happen. He kept to the wings, a walkway round the periphery, hearing the grunts and cries from within the cable tiers. It was a harsh situation, but Kydd could see no alternative; he would not be one to judge.
On deck again he was passed a note by a signal messenger. 'Fr'm offa bumboat, Mr Kydd.'
It was addressed to the officer-of-the-watch. Kydd opened it. It was in an unpractised but firm round hand:
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